


Witch and Bricks

by Kalael



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:35:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalael/pseuds/Kalael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need to work,”  She tells the shop, “so you have to unlock the doors so people can get in, because we need <em>money</em>, and you are preventing that.  You are preventing the money.  Which, by the way, is very helpful in keeping you from being <em>knocked down</em>.”</p><p>An undead witch trying to run her coffee shop, which has an attitude all its own, and the stories of the people who visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The coffee shop is in love with her, in the way only a sentient building can love. It’s the only explanation for the waves of warmth and joy that demand her attention every time she returns to what has become her home. She had felt the shop’s presence calling out to her before she had even realized what it meant.

And now she is stuck here, with the brick and mortar equivalent of an overly eager Irish Wolfhound. It’s not something she would have ever expected for herself, but to be honest, she really doubts that anyone truly considers the vast possibilities of life after death.

“I need to work,” She tells the shop, “so you have to unlock the doors so people can get in, because we need _money_ , and you are preventing that. You are preventing the money. Which, by the way, is very helpful in keeping you from being _knocked down_.”

The very foundation of the shop quakes, and the locks in the front doors pop. Finally. She flips the closed sign to open, moves one of the overstuffed armchairs that had been shifted in the shop’s tantrum, and waits.

She and the shop are always waiting, but never for very long.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the witch doesn't have a name (yet) but she DOES have fabulous natural hair.
> 
> two regulars and the shop schemes.

“You should consider roasting in-house. Better quality, better taste, better money.” Jakob slides towards the register, quite literally as his worn winter boots squelch on the linoleum.

“Only if the beans are actually usable after being roasted in-house, which I can assure you they certainly wouldn’t be.” She tells him. “Good morning. Cappuccino?”

“Latte.” Jakob cheerfully disagrees. “Extra foam.” She rolls her eyes but punches in the buttons anyway, holding out a hand into which Jakob dutifully drops a five dollar bill. “Keep the change, doll. Use it to buy yourself something nice. Like a hairbrush.”

“This is my natural hair, and I am never going to change it.” She is physically incapable of it, being dead and all, but Jakob doesn’t actually know that. The majority of her patrons don’t. All they know is that her coffee makes them happy, and that’s why they keep coming back. She makes the latte like a cappuccino, with just slightly less foam and a sprinkle of cinnamon for good measure. Good fortune, purity, protection. She sets it on the counter and Jakob saunters to his usual seat by the window to set up his laptop.

The shop creaks, pleased. Jakob is a favorite. He tips nicely and compliments the wall colors, and he does not leave trash lying around.

It is only six in the morning. She continues to wait.

 

“Chai.” Marlene sniffles, glaring down at the counter as though it has personally offended her.

“Still sick?” She asks, and Marlene’s glare turns on her.

“Chai.” Marlene says again, her accent mostly muffled by the nasally cold that has plagued her for the past two weeks. Within a few moments a chai latte is placed before her, and she shuffles into a seat just far away enough from Jakob that it’s not overly obvious that she’s got a huge crush on him.

The shop pushes the thought that maybe they should sit closer together. Eventually, they do.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not just regulars who stop by. There are people who come every few weeks or months, and others who happen to just stumble in. The people who find the shop by pure accident are the most interesting, because they often look bewildered by their surrounding, like they have no idea how they got there. These are the people who need it the most, the angry ones and the lost ones and the sad ones with red rims around their eyes and trembling fingers clutching thin coats. She knows exactly what these people need, be it tea or coffee, and her sense of it is uncanny. They always tip the best when they leave, not always with money.

Sometimes, they want to talk. She likes these ones best. They are the only real connection she has to the world outside, aside from papers and gossip. Between her permanent place in the shop and tenuous pathways to other shops like it, she is well travelled only in the sense that she has been to countless cities in a single day. She has never seen these cities beyond the windows of the shops and the glory of Google Earth.

They talk about heartbreak and funerals and the view of a distant skyline from the windows of airplanes, of flooded laundromats and homeless shelters and big empty penthouses. They are All Kinds, every human encompassed in these lonely masses that trudge into her shop. They sip oolong and french roast and mochas. They wear various trends of fashion and things beyond the vein of fashion and they are all alive, thrumming with that energy she herself can only mimic. Her veins run with magic and she knows, she _knows_ she will not bleed.

Their hearts beat. Cities of beating hearts, steady as a thousand drums, and hers only an echo of their own.

The shop leans out its awning, rain catching on the canvas. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

“Sorry.” She says, dialing her anxiety back as best she can. It doesn’t work, her emotions fray out like the raw edges of torn fabric. She hasn’t the skill to mend it. “You know I’m still--I’m not good at this, yet.”

The lights dim slightly, comforting. The music system kicks on and there’s soft acoustic, which flips to indie electronica. The shop knows, doesn’t really understand, but knows in the way it knows most things. There is no blame in the soothing pulses it sends out. She settles into the overstuffed armchair and places a hand over her eyes.

“Sorry,” she repeats. _Thank you_ goes unspoken.

But the shops knows, and it continues to pulse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing is in chronological order and at the moment it's mostly a collection of related drabbles. The witch still doesn't have a name yet.

The witch in Duluth had committed suicide before he was chosen for his position. She remembers hearing about it, although she hadn’t gone to his initiation. He doesn’t like to talk about it. She’d heard that it had been pretty gory, and there’s a scar on his left temple that gives her enough of an idea. Not every shop is sentient like her own, but his is, and his shop had chosen him because all the witches of that shop had made that same choice in their mortal lives.

Some shops are like that. She doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to, and her own shop shares the sentiment. She’s gone a few times to see him and he’s friendly enough, despite having commit suicide just three years prior. There must be something healing about working in the shop. A lot of people regret their choice, the Duluth witch says. He doesn’t, since it brought him here.

She wonders if she regrets her own death. Her sudden departure hadn’t been planned. There had been plenty of loose ends that would never get the chance to tie up. She decides that she can’t regret it simply on principle, there’s nothing that could have been done either way, and she’s had ten years to get used to things as they are now.

It doesn’t change the fact that she wishes she could see her own grave.


End file.
